


The Curious Afterlife of John Sheppard

by enigmaticblue



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Community: sgareversebang, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Technically, John Sheppard dies in the Nevada desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curious Afterlife of John Sheppard

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mess Hall](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3839) by csichick_2. 



> Written for the sgareversebang, and inspired by the lovely banner created by csichick. AU after SGA 5.19, "Vegas," and SG-1 "The Ark of Truth."

Technically, John Sheppard dies in the Nevada desert.

 

He’s expecting to die, so it isn’t much of a surprise when he feels his life slipping away, his blood soaking the sand beneath him.

 

When his eyes open and he sees ceiling tiles, all he can do is blink stupidly. Other sensory data filters in slowly—the soft beeping of various monitors, the pinch of the IV in his hand, the smell of antiseptic and sickness. When he shifts, John feels the ache and burn in his side, the pull of stitches, and he groans.

 

The monitor picks up the change in his heart rate, beeping just a little faster. A nurse bustles into the room and beams at John. “You’re awake, Mr. Sheppard. Do you need anything?”

 

John’s mouth is dry, and his throat is sore. “Water?”

 

“Of course.” The nurse adjusts the bed and puts a straw to John’s lips. When he’s taken a few sips, she pulls the glass away and pats him on the shoulder. “Let me get the doctor.”

 

John turns his head to look at the blue-gray walls; they look familiar, even though John is fairly certain he’s never been in this room. Then again, most hospital rooms look the same.

 

The doctor who comes into his room is a dark-skinned woman in her thirties, and she’s wearing an Air Force uniform with captain’s bars and a nametag that reads “R. Johnson.” “Mr. Sheppard, I’m Dr. Johnson. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little sore,” he admits.

 

“I think you’re about due for another dose of morphine,” Dr. Johnson says with a smile. “You’re very lucky, you know. Your heart stopped briefly right after the rescue team found you, and then again on the operating table.”

 

John isn’t surprised by that news. “Yeah, I figured I was probably a goner.”

 

“As I said, you were very lucky.”

 

“So, uh, where exactly am I?” John asks as Dr. Johnson injects something into the IV port.

 

The doctor gives John a look that he can’t read as she says, “We’re at Peterson Air Force Base.”

 

“Peterson?” The world begins to go fuzzy around the edges from the medication, and John tries to remember where Peterson is located.

 

“Colorado Springs,” she says gently and pats him on the shoulder. “Get some rest.”

 

John doesn’t have much of a choice; he fades out as the morphine does its work.

 

~~~~~

 

When he wakes again, the nurse brings him dinner in the form of a Jell-O cup. John eats desultorily, feeling a little numb from the drugs and the knowledge that he’s still alive.

 

John isn’t exactly happy about that; he’d been satisfied that his death meant something.

 

He’s halfway through his Jell-O when Dr. McKay strides into the room, followed by an older man wearing dress blues and the single star of a brigadier general. John tries to straighten, the reflexes from another life still deeply ingrained.

 

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Sheppard,” McKay says. “You’re looking better than you were the last time I saw you.”

 

As far as John can remember, the last time he’d seen McKay had been at Area 51, right after McKay had said that John had it in him to be a hero. “Yeah? When was that?”

 

“You were unconscious at the time,” McKay replies airily. “Good job, by the way. We’d have the Wraith at our door if you hadn’t found him in time.”

 

John’s mouth twists ruefully. “Happy to help.”

 

An awkward silence falls, and John twists the sheets. When it doesn’t appear that anyone else is going to speak, he says, “Not that it isn’t nice to see you again, McKay, but what brings you by?”

 

McKay holds out a closed fist, and John lets McKay drop an object into his open palm. It’s roundish, silver in color—and as soon as it touches his skin, it begins to glow blue, warming slowly. If John looks a little closer, he can see other colors swirling in its depths, and he feels a tug in the back of his mind that says _home_.

 

A low whistle catches his attention. “Damn, McKay, you weren’t kidding. I couldn’t get that thing to do more than flicker.”

 

John looks up to see the general, who’s looking impressed. “Kidding about what? What is this?” he asks.

 

“You have what we call the ATA gene, Sheppard, one of the strongest we’ve seen,” McKay replies. “And I’m the smartest man in two galaxies, O’Neill. I know what I’m talking about.”

 

John feels the first stirring of panic. “What does _that_ mean?”

 

“It means we’re calling you back to active duty, Major,” General O’Neill says.

 

Once again, John feels as though his life is spinning out of control. “You can’t. I—” He still hates saying it. “I was dishonorably discharged.”

 

“That record has been buried,” General O’Neill replies with a smirk. “And that gene makes you a priceless military asset. With everything you know, we can’t let you walk away.”

 

John feels his heart race. “You can’t just call me back up.”

 

“Remember when I said I had the power to ruin your life?” McKay says, although his tone is gentler than the words themselves. “Technically, Sheppard, you died in the desert.”

 

John immediately understands what McKay isn’t saying. If he’s dead, no one is going to look for him. If he disappears, no one will even notice. “Then I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

 

“Not really,” General O’Neill replies cheerfully. “Your records have been sealed. As far as anyone knows, you left the Air Force when your contract expired.”

 

“And if I run into someone I used to know?” John asks incredulously. He can’t quite get over the fact that his entire history is being rewritten.

 

General O’Neill straightens. “You died in service to your country, Sheppard. That’s all anybody needs to know. You’ll get your new orders once you’re back on your feet. Coming, McKay?”

 

“I’ll be right behind you,” McKay promises, lingering next to John’s bed. “Are you going to be okay?”

 

McKay’s concern is touching, especially considering that he’s probably the only person on earth who gives a damn. “I’ll be fine.” John holds out the glowing blue rock. “Here.”

 

“Keep it,” McKay insists. “As far as we can tell, it’s useless.”

 

John closes his fist around the object again, feeling inexplicably comforted. “Thanks.”

 

“Get well.” McKay smiles. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Major.”

 

“Maybe so.” John watches him leave and then settles back on the bed, clutching the glowing stone tightly, like a talisman to ward off the darkness.

 

~~~~~

 

He spends two more days in the hospital before they discharge him. John has no idea where his car is, or the rest of his possessions. He probably should have asked McKay, but his mind had been on other things at the time. All he’s got are the scrubs he’s wearing and the tattered garments the paramedics cut off of him.

 

John has just finished signing the papers when an airman shows up with a bag in hand, saluting as he hands it to John. “Major Sheppard, I’ve been ordered to escort you to Cheyenne Mountain. General O’Neill sends his regards.”

 

“Thank you, airman.” John retreats behind a screen. Much as he expects, there’s a clean set of BDUs, a pair of boots, and a set of dog tags. It’s the tags that give him pause; his hands shake a bit as he picks them up. He runs his thumb over the lettering and around the rubber silencers.

 

He puts them on, and can’t get past the surreality of it all. It’s like a dream, and as in a dream, the tags weigh more than they should.

 

He pushes that thought aside and finishes dressing. The airman is waiting for him out in the hallway, and John has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s in custody.

 

“So, where exactly are we headed?” John asks, following the airman—Farnsworth was the name on his uniform—out to a military-issue Jeep.

 

“Cheyenne Mountain, sir.”

 

John doesn’t try to make conversation after that. He’s out of the habit, and he has no idea what to say.

 

Airman Farnsworth escorts John into the mountain, checking them in at the front desk and then leading the way to the elevator. They descend 27 levels, and Farnswoth strikes up a conversation with another airman who gets on at level 10.

 

“This way, sir,” Farnsworth says. “General Landry wanted to see you when you arrived before you talk to Dr. Lam.”

 

John forces a smile. “Great.”

 

It takes John about five seconds to figure out that Landry is a lot more of a hardass than O’Neill. John salutes and Landry fixes him with a glare.

 

“While O’Neill might have altered and classified your records, I’m fully aware of what you did in Afghanistan.”

 

John keeps his back stiff and his eyes straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”

 

“If you ever do something like that while under my command, you’ll _wish_ for a dishonorable discharge.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Landry leans back in his chair. “That being said, I know how Jack feels about leaving people behind, which is probably why he’s taken such a shine to you.” Landry sighs. “All right. Go let Dr. Lam check you out in the infirmary. You’ll be assigned base quarters for now, and you’re on light duty until she releases you.”

 

John hesitates, and Landry raises his eyebrows. “Well? Spit it out, Major.”

 

“Am I restricted to base, sir?”

 

“You’re not a prisoner, Major. Dismissed.”

 

John executes a precise turn and leaves, wondering whether he’ll be able to get away with avoiding Landry in the future.

 

Farnsworth leads the way to the infirmary, where John gets checked by yet another doctor. “I think you’re well enough for light duty,” Dr. Lam confirms. “ _Just_ light duty, though, Major.”

 

“I’m kind of in the dark here, Doc,” he says, and although he’s trying for “charming” he’s pretty sure he misses the mark. “What the hell am I supposed to be doing?”

 

Dr. Lam pats him on the shoulder. “There should be an orientation packet in your quarters, Major. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to see.”

 

John slowly pulls his t-shirt back on and once again finds Farnsworth waiting for him. “Were you ordered to shadow me, Farnsworth?” he asks.

 

“Just until you reach your quarters, sir. It’s a big place. Sometimes people get lost.” Farnsworth’s expression is perfectly blank.

 

“Right,” John drawls, and is rewarded by the flicker of a smile on the airman’s face.

 

Farnsworth delivers John to his quarters and executes a sharp salute. John returns it with something he hopes approximates a smile.

 

The room has a bed, a desk, a chair, and a bathroom that has all the necessities, even if it’s barely big enough to turn around in. There’s a footlocker at the foot of the bed, and John peeks inside to find more uniforms in blue and green.

 

He sees the red folder on the desk and flips it open. Immediately on top is a typewritten note that reads, “The car was a loss, but everything else has been packed up and put into storage.” There’s an address and a key taped to the letter, with a scrawl at the bottom that John interprets as R. McKay.

 

Unexpectedly warmed, John sets the letter and the key aside for now. The rest of the information is impersonal—the locations of the gate room, the mess, and the lab where he’s to report the next morning. There’s a brief explanation of his mission parameters—to assist the scientists with their exploration of Ancient technology.

 

Which means, John thinks, that he’s supposed to turn things on with his brain. He fingers the small object McKay had left for him, feeling the same pull again.

 

When he pulls it out of his pocket, it’s glowing blue and silver, and he lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. He’s tired, and he hurts, and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

 

Briefly, John wishes he’d never stumbled across the Wraith, that he’d never pulled this case. He wishes he were back in Vegas now.

 

Doing what? John asks himself. He would just be digging himself deeper into the hole. McKay’s assessment had been accurate. Too much longer, and he’d have found himself in an early grave.

 

John smiles mirthlessly. An early grave is still a distinct possibility, but he can’t bring himself to care. Really, John figures he’s already died a couple of times; he’s just living on borrowed time.

 

~~~~~

 

John arrives at the lab the next morning, making sure to be a few minutes early; he’s not quite ready to piss anybody off.

 

The short, balding man who greets John warmly is both what he expects, and not. “Dr. Bill Lee,” he says with a smile. “Thanks for letting us use your gene, Major Sheppard. The only person we know of with a gene that rivals yours is General O’Neill, and we can’t use him for light switch duty, of course.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” John agrees amiably.

 

Dr. Lee waves him to a lab stool. “Have a seat. I’m under strict orders from Dr. Lam not to push you too hard, so if you get tired, let me know.”

 

John raises an eyebrow.

 

“Have you seen the size of that woman’s needles?” Dr. Lee asks. “Anybody who’s been here for any length of time knows that you don’t piss off the doctors in the infirmary. Or the nurses. Actually, don’t piss off anybody who might end up saving your life.”

 

John smiles. “Got it.”

 

The morning passes pleasantly enough. Some of the items Dr. Lee asks him to activate are dead, without even a spark of life. Some of them light up at John’s touch like a welcome sign made just for him. John figures he’d better get used to being treated as a tool, because Dr. Lee soon ignores John in favor of his readings.

 

“That should be enough for the day, Major,” Dr. Lee says around lunchtime. “Thank you.”

 

John is far more exhausted than he thinks is reasonable for a day spent turning things on with his brain. He grabs a sandwich in the mess and then heads to his room. He bumps into another officer on the way, and his tired brain belatedly prompts him to salute.

 

The colonel waves him off. “You’re new to the SGC, aren’t you?” he asks.

 

“Yes, sir,” John replies, wishing he was back in his room and in the bed calling his name. He glances at the name stitched on the uniform, though, and reads “Mitchell.” Vaguely, John remembers something about Mitchell leading SG-1, the SGC’s flagship team.

 

Mitchell nods at him. “Colonel Cameron Mitchell. Nice to meet you.”

 

“Major John Sheppard,” John replies, although he still feels like a fraud when he gives his rank. He keeps waiting for someone to call him on it, to bring up the fact that he was dishonorably discharged. John remembers what Rodney had said—that he’d narrowly escaped jail time.

 

It had been true, John knows. It had all been true.

 

Mitchell just smiles, though. “Good to have you aboard, Major.”

 

John escapes to his room then, where he consumes the sandwich and collapses on his bed, sleeping for most of the afternoon.

 

When he wakes up, he has just enough time to get to his check-in at the infirmary before Dr. Lam sends someone after him.

 

“Sorry about the frequent check-ups, Major,” she says. “But quite frankly, we’ve never had someone with the strength of your gene before. We’re not sure what the effects of long-term exposure to Ancient technology will be.”

 

John tries his most charming grin. “So, you’re using me as a guinea pig?”

 

He has no idea if his charm has any effect, but Dr. Lam does smile. “Pretty much. Do you have any objection to that?”

 

“Not at all.” John hesitates and then says, “I was pretty tired today after getting done with Dr. Lee today.”

 

“You’re going to tire easily for a while, Major,” Dr. Lam assures him. “You went through quite an ordeal, and you lost a lot of blood. Sleep when you need to, and if your time in the labs is too taxing, don’t be afraid to say so.”

 

John nods, although he can’t see himself wimping out at this stage in the game.

 

Dr. Lam takes another blood sample, and then shoos him out. “Go get some dinner, Major. I’d like to see you put on the weight you lost while in the hospital.”

 

The mess is serving spaghetti and meatballs, and John blinks at the double helping of spaghetti he’s given. Apparently, Dr. Lam has talked to the kitchen staff.

 

John finds an empty table off in a corner and sits down with his back to the wall. The precaution probably isn’t necessary, but John can’t help himself. He wants to watch; he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

 

The mess is fairly busy. John notices that the folks present tend to bunch up into groups, although he can’t say for certain what separates one knot of people from another. He catches sight of Mitchell across the room, and he’s seated with two other men and a couple of women. One of the other men is huge, with a gold tattoo on his forehead, and John recognizes Teal’c from the description in his orientation materials.

 

There had been a non-specific rundown of the SGC teams in the packet, but SG-1 had pride of place. Chances are good that the others with Mitchell are members of the flagship team, and John doesn’t have too much trouble guessing at their identities.

 

These people are legends within the SGC, and John suspects they’re the real deal—the sort of people who deserve every accolade.

 

John has nothing in common with them. No matter what O’Neill has done to his record, John knows the truth, just like Landry does.

 

From his spot in the corner, John watches them as he forks up spaghetti. He makes it most of the way through his dinner before he’s too full to finish. His eyes are drawn again and again to SG-1. They all look so comfortable together, the kind of closeness John used to have with his men in Afghanistan, the ones he’d gotten killed.

 

John disposes of his tray and returns to his quarters gratefully. He passes out in short order, in spite his long nap that afternoon, and he sleeps the night through. John might have been concerned, but for Dr. Lam’s assurances.

 

For now, John will be content with light duty and afternoon naps, because in all honesty, he’s not certain that this isn’t some elaborate dream, or maybe his afterlife.

 

John _had_ died, after all. Hell, maybe he was still dead, and he just didn’t know it.

 

~~~~~

 

John spends the next couple of weeks working in Dr. Lee’s lab for a few hours every day, checking in with Dr. Lam, and sleeping. Lam steadfastly refuses to clear him for more than that, insisting that he’s not ready for it, no matter what arguments he musters.

 

“Trust me, Major Sheppard,” Dr. Lam assures him. “If I release you to full duty before you’re ready, it’s going to be detrimental to your overall health.”

 

John doesn’t fight her after that. It’s not the he trusts her; he doesn’t trust anybody. He’d be willing to bet his next paycheck that there had been a spirited debate as to whether anybody ought to at least check and see if he’d made it once the Wraith had been bombed out of existence.

 

The SGC wants John because he has some sort of supergene, nothing more than that.

 

But as soon as Lam gives John the go-ahead, he starts back with limited physical training. John has been shot before, but it’s taking him longer to recover this time. He suspects it’s a sign of age, and resolutely doesn’t think about it again.

 

By the time John has been at Cheyenne Mountain for a month, he still feels disconnected. He hasn’t made any attempt to find quarters off-base, and even though he’s been cleared for fieldwork, he hasn’t been assigned to a gate team.

 

They don’t know _what_ to do with him, it seems. He’s an anomaly—someone who got booted out and then conscripted into service again. The only people who seem happy to have him around are the scientists, but they don’t pay any more attention to him than another piece of lab equipment.

 

“Try this one, Major,” Dr. Lee orders absently, handing John a square something. The item remains stubbornly quiescent under John’s hand.

 

Dr. Lee shrugs. “All right. I’ve got a couple of others—”

 

“No, wait,” John says, suddenly wanting to try. “Hang on.”

 

He focuses, finding that strange little niggle that John now recognizes as Ancient technology, and then he _pushes_.

 

There’s nothing sentient about the items built by the Ancients, not really, but there’s a certain awareness that John can’t explain even if he wanted to. He hasn’t tried.

 

The device wakes sluggishly, and John can feel a certain sense of wrongness that’s probably the reason. “I think it’s some sort of hand-held tablet, used for educational purposes,” John finally says. “There’s a loose connection, so it’s not going to be real responsive.”

 

Dr. Lee stares at him. “You can tell that just by holding it?”

 

“Sometimes,” John admits.

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

John raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask. You just wanted me to turn it on.” He probably doesn’t need to be a smartass about it, but he’s tired of the scientists treating him like nothing more than a piece of equipment.

 

Dr. Lee stares at him for a moment, and then he suddenly smiles. “You’re right. So, Major, what else can you do?”

 

John spends the rest of the day in the lab; Bill—as he now insists John call him—isn’t anxious to let him go. John is nearly cross-eyed with exhaustion when he heads to the mess for dinner.

 

He eats mechanically, not really tasting his food, until his attention is caught by Colonel Mitchell, who’s sitting at a table on the other side of the room. Mitchell seems to be engaged in an argument with the woman seated next to him, and since he’d briefly met Colonel Carter in the labs, this woman has to be Vala Mal Doran.

 

John is still letting his thoughts drift, watching them, when Mitchell glances in John’s direction. John flushes, a little embarrassed at having been caught staring, and he quickly finishes the last of his meal and leaves, careful not to look at Mitchell or Vala again.

 

~~~~~

 

John gets his first opportunity to go through the gate two days later when SG-11 is tasked with a mission to PY4-296. There’s a rumor that the site has Ancient technology, and John has the go-ahead to go off-world.

 

The ruins are a good seven klicks away from the gate, and John is grateful that he started training as soon as Lam cleared him. The other members of the team mostly ignore John; they’ve clearly been together long enough to formulate their own in-jokes and shorthand. John knows they’re not intentionally leaving him out, and he’s mostly content to let their chatter wash over him, but there’s the unmistakable sense of being an outsider.

 

Reflexively, John reaches into his pocket and closes his fingers around the fancy paperweight that McKay had given him in the hospital. He carries it with him everywhere, and it never fails to give him a measure of comfort.

 

John is fairly certain that it’s actually a key of some sort, but without the corresponding lock, it can’t do much. Still, it carries a whisper of feeling, of _home_ , something John hasn’t felt since his mom died.

 

They slog through a swamp to get to the ruins, and John is muddy and damp by the time they arrive at their destination.

 

The rumors of Ancient tech turn out to be false; there’s literally nothing for him to do, because the other team members know their jobs too well. John ends up walking the perimeter until it’s time to head back to the gate.

 

He’s dead exhausted by the time they get home, and he makes it through the post-mission medical while only half-awake.

 

“Get some rest, Major,” Dr. Lam orders. “Did you get dinner?”

 

“I’ll grab something on the way to my quarters,” John promises.

 

“I want to see you put on a few more pounds,” Lam says seriously. “You’re still underweight.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promises.

 

Eating dinner wakes John up a bit, and he’s halfway through his sandwich when Colonel Mitchell drops into the seat across from him. “So, I hear you don’t have a team.”

 

John blinks at him. The way Mitchell is talking, it’s like they’ve been carrying on a conversation John hasn’t been privy to. “No, sir, I don’t,” John says finally.

 

“You were out with a team today, though,” Mitchell observes.

 

“Yes, sir. SG-11.”

 

“You like going off-world?”

 

“Better than being cooped up here all day,” John allows.

 

Mitchell puts his elbows on the table and gives John a searching look. “Colonel Carter was just granted command of the _Phoenix_ , Jackson is off on some archeological dig, and Teal’c is hanging out with the free Jaffa, which pretty much leaves Vala and me.”

 

John nods as though he actually understands most of what Mitchell just said. “Okay.”

 

“I think Landry will let us get away with a team of three,” Mitchell says. “At least until we know for sure whether Jackson is coming back. So, what do you say, Sheppard?”

 

Sheppard wants to argue that Mitchell doesn’t know what the hell he’s getting himself into, that Mitchell doesn’t know his background. All he manages to say is, “If you can get General Landry to go along with it, that would be fine, sir.”

 

Mitchell’s eyes narrow. “You know, Sheppard, I had you pegged as a smartass.”

 

John feels a real smile tug at his lips. “Only once you get to know me. Sir.”

 

Mitchell snorts. “Can the ‘sir’, at least when it’s just the team.”

 

John grins. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mitchell rolls his eyes. “Get some sleep, Sheppard, you look like shit.”

 

John just smiles, pleased to have something to do.

 

~~~~~

 

Landry clearly isn’t thrilled about letting John join SG-1, even though the team has been decimated by recent absences and reassignments. John thinks it might be the principle of the thing; Landry might not want to allow a fuck-up like Sheppard to join SG-1. Or maybe Landry just doesn’t like the idea of a three-person team, although John hasn’t read any regs that require a certain number.

 

“What about a scientist?” Landry asks, a little desperately. “Shouldn’t you have someone on your team who knows how to fix a DHD?”

 

“Oh, I can do that,” Vala says, waving a hand dismissively. “Simple repairs, anyway.”

 

Landry’s eyes narrow, and he let out a disbelieving snort. “Are you sure you want Sheppard?”

 

“I’m sure,” Mitchell replies, and there’s a hint of steel in his voice just under that good old boy charm. “I’ve looked at the files you gave me, sir, and Sheppard is the one I want.”

 

John stares at the table, hoping that he’s not blushing.

 

“I see. You realize that Sheppard’s gene makes him a valuable commodity around the SGC, don’t you?” Landry asks.

 

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think we want to get to a point where we view our people as ‘commodities.’” Mitchell’s voice is cold, and John wonders how good Mitchell’s record must be, to get away with speaking like that to a general.

 

“Fair enough,” Landry says. “All right, we’ll give it a couple of weeks and see what happens, but I expect Sheppard to continue his work with Dr. Lee when he’s not off-world.”

 

John sees Mitchell grimace, and he suspects that Landry is giving him a heavier workload than most of the SGC has. He doesn’t mind, though. He knows it’s a test, and John doesn’t have anything else to do outside of work.

 

Landry dismisses them soon after that, and Mitchell claps John on the shoulder as they leave the conference room. “How long since you’ve been off base, Sheppard?”

 

John hesitates, not wanting to admit that he hasn’t left Cheyenne Mountain since he got there—other than the mission with SG-11.

 

“Dinner and drinks on me tonight,” Mitchell says, apparently not wanting to wait for a response. “Vala? You coming?”

 

“I never say no to dinner and drinks,” Vala replies. She gives Mitchell a flirtatious look, although John suspects that Vala flirts with everybody.

 

Mitchell doesn’t check to see if John is on board; he just leads the way to the locker rooms. John realizes belatedly that he hasn’t bothered getting any of his civilian clothes sent to the base, and he hasn’t bought any new clothing to replace it.

 

“I don’t have anything to change into,” John admits, stopping Mitchell just outside the locker room.

 

Mitchell gives him a sharp look. “For God’s sake, don’t tell Vala. She’ll insist on taking you shopping, and that’s the last thing you want.”

 

John grins a little at that.

 

“But as for tonight, I’ve got a spare pair of jeans you can borrow. The rest of it should be fine.”

 

Mitchell’s clothes are a little too big on him, but not so much as to draw attention. John doesn’t ask why Mitchell keeps more than one spare set of clothing on base.

 

He really has no idea how sick he is of uniforms until he pulls on Mitchell’s spare pair of jeans, leaving on the black-shirt he normally wears under his uniform. With the combat boots and the olive green jacket over the top, it’s nowhere near John’s usual style, but he’s learned to take what he can get.

 

Whatever hope John has of Vala not noticing that he’s wearing borrowed clothing is dashed when she gives him an appraising look as they leave the base. “First chance we get, Sheppard, we’re going shopping.”

 

John manages to stifle a groan, but he sees Mitchell’s smirk out of the corner of his eye.

 

Mitchell drives them to O’Malley’s; John has heard of it, and he knows it’s a regular hangout for SGC personnel. The restaurant lives up to its reputation; the steaks are huge—thick, delicious, and cooked to perfection—and the beer is good.

 

John expects dinner to be awkward; after all, Mitchell and Vala are teammates, and he’s the interloper. He wants to hold back, but between Mitchell’s Southern charm and Vala’s ebullience, he’s soon at ease in spite of himself.

 

Vala slyly brings up all the times that Mitchell has lost his pants while on a mission, insinuating that’s why Mitchell keeps a spare pair of jeans on base.

 

“You know, none of those times were my fault!” Mitchell protests.

 

Vala pats his hand condescendingly. “You have terrible luck, darling.”

 

Her response is so outrageous it startles a laugh out of John. He’s not sure he can remember the last time he laughed.

 

“Yeah, laugh it up, Sheppard,” Mitchell grumbles, although there’s a twinkle in his eye. “The first time you get caught up in some weird alien ritual and lose _your_ pants, we’ll see how funny it is.”

 

John raises his eyebrows. “What kind of weird alien rituals are we talking about here?”

 

“It’s not that bad,” Vala assures him. “As long as you don’t mind drinking a lot of tea.”

 

Mitchell smirks. “Like that tea on P29-481?”

 

Vala rolls her eyes. “That was a mild narcotic, Cameron. Really, how was I supposed to know that your people are so uptight about that kind of thing?”

 

Their good-natured teasing provides an enjoyable show for the rest of dinner, and when they’re done eating, Mitchell drives him and Vala back to the base.

 

“You know, Sheppard, you might want to think about getting a place off-base,” Mitchell says. “I think there are some open apartments in my building.”

 

John appreciates the suggestion, although he’s not sure he wants to be neighbors with his team leader. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Do that,” Mitchell advises him. “Trust me, it’s good to get off the base sometimes.”

 

“If I’m going off-world, I am getting off the base,” John feels compelled to point out.

 

“See, that’s what I like about you, Shep,” Mitchell says. “You _are_ a smart ass.”

 

“It’s a character flaw,” John agrees.

 

Mitchell shakes his head. “Get out of here. We’ve got a pre-mission briefing at 8 am tomorrow.”

 

John makes a sloppy salute. “Yes, sir.”

 

Mitchell’s answering grin follows John back to his quarters.

 

~~~~~

 

Going through the gate as a member of a team, rather than as a tagalong, is a different experience for John. Mitchell and Vala actually talk to him, for one. The walk from the gate to the nearest village is made under a cloudless blue sky over springy green meadows.

 

“Now, this is what I’m talking about,” Mitchell says enthusiastically.

 

Vala tips her head back to soak up the sunlight. John sees the faint lines around her eyes and mouth as her lips tilt in a delighted smile. “This is a beautiful world.”

 

SG-1 has been to this world before, and this trip is meant to be an easy one, to check on how things are, and to make sure there isn’t any trouble brewing. From what John understands, the Goa’uld system lords tend to stay in their own corners of the galaxy these days, and the Ori are on the run.

 

The Lucian Alliance is the biggest threat, since John had put paid to the Wraith’s plans to make Earth the next stop on the buffet.

 

But there are always pirates, those who prey on small villages, and the SGC is always in the market for supplies, new medicines, and, of course, naquadah.

 

One of the village elders greets them enthusiastically, the long tunic and loose pants he wears fluttering in the breeze. “Colonel Mitchell! Vala Mal Doran! It is a pleasure to see you again. But where are the rest of your friends?”

 

“They had some new opportunities come up,” Mitchell replies easily. “Elder Tarn, this is Major Sheppard. He’s part of our team now.”

 

“Then we welcome you, Major Sheppard,” Elder Tarn says. “Please, join us for our midday meal.”

 

Lunch consists of flatbread, which is used to scoop up some sort of stewed vegetables in a spicy sauce, and John is continually amazed at how almost every culture has some version of a sandwich, or a wrap.

 

Mitchell and Vala make small talk, asking about those in the village they’ve met before, and John listens intently.

 

“Any problems since we were here last, Elder?” Mitchell asks.

 

“No, Colonel. The medicines you left have been very helpful in treating the summer sickness.” Elder Tarn hesitates, and then adds. “There have been reports of bandits in other villages, but we have seen no sign of them here.”

 

“Be sure to let us know if you do,” Mitchell insists. “We’d like to help.”

 

“Thank you, Colonel.”

 

The rest of the visit passes pleasantly enough, with Elder Tarn himself insisting on walking them to the gate. They’re halfway there when John picks up the high whine of some kind of engine. “What is that?” John asks.

 

“It’s a ship!” Elder Tarn cries out.

 

John instinctively ducks as a ship flies over their heads. He doesn’t recognize the model, but Vala apparently does, because she curses bitterly. “I know that ship. It belongs to a pirate named Brun.”

 

“What kind of pirate?” Mitchell asks.

 

Vala shoots him a grim look. “The kind that thinks killing people is fun.”

 

“We must go back to the village,” Elder Tarn insists. “Even if you will not help, I take care of my people.”

 

John watches the battle on Mitchell’s face—do they go back to the gate and call for reinforcements, or do they go to the village and risk everything? John hates the idea of leaving the village defenseless, just so they can call in more firepower.

 

“Shit,” Mitchell curses angrily. “Okay, yeah. We’re heading back.”

 

Elder Tarn’s speed surprises John, but he supposes that the man has every reason to move quickly. Even at a sprint, they aren’t going to make it back in time, but John figures that they might be able to do some damage, maybe save a few lives.

 

The ship has landed on the near side of town, and John follows Mitchell’s order to drop to the ground when they’re about fifty yards away. “We’re going to do everything we can for your people, Elder,” Mitchell promises. “But we can’t do anything if we’re captured.”

 

“I understand, Colonel,” the man replies.

 

Vala is stretched out next to John in the tall grass outside the village. John watches with alarm as Vala begins to wriggle out of her tac vest. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands.

 

“I’m going to distract Brun. He’s always had a thing for me,” Vala responds matter-of-factly. “I trust the two of you will get me out of there before I have to make good on any promises I’ve made him.”

 

“Vala—” Cameron begins.

 

“I can guarantee you that he has at least half a dozen men with him. Do you really want to take on that many, Cameron?” Vala shakes her hair loose, and her beauty strikes John. “I didn’t think so. Now, give me a couple of minutes, and then start moving.”

 

Mitchell doesn’t try to stop her after that, and John feels his heart clench as Vala begins to snake her way through the grass. He doesn’t mind walking into danger, but he hates seeing someone else do the same.

 

John manages to keep from fidgeting through sheer will. He’s worked covert ops in the past; he knows how to stay silent and still. Mitchell gives Vala the two minutes she asked for, and then he orders the elder to stay put. “We know you want to help,” Mitchell says. “But let us try to take the guards out first.”

 

Elder Tarn nods somewhat reluctantly. “I will wait.” His tone says that he won’t wait for long, but Mitchell doesn’t comment on it.

 

“Shep, you’ve had covert ops training, haven’t you?” Mitchell murmurs.

 

John smiles. “It’s my favorite thing.”

 

“Shoot to kill,” Mitchell advises. “We’re not taking prisoners today.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

John follows Mitchell through the tall grass. He doesn’t realize that he’s following Mitchell without a second thought until they reach the first hut. Mitchell signals John to stay behind as he peers around the structure.

 

Although he chafes at the command, John keeps his position.

 

“Looks like Vala is proving a sufficient distraction,” Mitchell murmurs as he rejoins John. “I can see two pirates from this position. I want you to work your way around the perimeter; there’s a house directly across the square from this one. Take out any bad guys to your right. I’ll take the opposite half of town.”

 

John nods. There’s no choice but to follow orders at this point; he has to trust that Mitchell knows what he’s doing.

 

He hasn’t trusted anybody for a very long time.

 

“Let’s make sure Vala doesn’t have to strip,” Mitchell murmurs.

 

“Yes, sir,” John replies, and then begins to work his way around the edge of the village, staying down.

 

The pirates are sloppy. They’re clearly expecting unarmed villagers, incapable of mounting an effective defense. From what Vala has said, she knew Brun from before; he clearly doesn’t expect her to have backup, because even her presence doesn’t clue him in that something more might be going on.

 

The pirates—all eight of them, including Brun—round up the villagers while John makes his way around the perimeter. Vala is front and center, and John hates the fact that she’s made herself a target.

 

John takes up position across from Mitchell and tries not to think about how he’s being forced to rely on his new teammates—not just to watch his back, but to do their own jobs. The second is harder than the first. John isn’t afraid to die, but he doesn’t want to lose anybody else, even relative strangers.

 

He catches Mitchell’s eye and sees him nod. John pulls his service weapon, which he prefers to the P-90 for this kind of work. John winces when Brun backhands Vala across the face, the force of the blow sending her to her knees. By accident or design, Vala catches John’s eye, and he sees the fire kindling there.

 

She winks deliberately, and then strikes quick as a snake. One minute, Brun is smirking down at her, and the next he’s screaming like a girl. John takes in the bloody knife in Vala’s hand, sees Mitchell’s gun come up for bear, and brings his own gun up, all in a split second.

 

John feels the adrenalin surging, and everything takes that sharp focus it does when it’s life or death, and there’s nothing in between. And hell, John is _good_ at this—somehow, he’d lost this edge while a cop, but he’s got it back now.

 

It turns out that Mitchell is just as good, because four of the pirates are dead before the rest can even raise their weapons. The villagers scatter as the pirates begin firing on John and Mitchell’s locations. They’re using some sort of pulse weapon, and the small corner of John’s mind that’s not occupied with firing and reloading thinks their guns are really, really cool.

 

John feels the sting of a piece of wood from the wall of the hut cutting his cheek, but he doesn’t stop firing. He adds two more to his body count and realizes that Mitchell and Vala have taken care of the rest.

 

When he’s sure it’s clear, John steps out from behind his shelter, hurrying over to offer Vala a hand up. Brun is dead with a knife in his chest, and John realizes that Vala killed him after hamstringing him.

 

She’s a fucking badass, he thinks, impressed as hell.

 

Vala takes his offer of help, rubbing her cheek where Brun hit her. “You okay?” John asks.

 

“I’m fine.” She gives Brun’s body a contemptuous look. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

 

Elder Tarn has found Mitchell and is thanking him profusely.

 

John looks around at the other villagers who are slowly coming out of hiding, and he feels a profound sense of relief. He’s a little shaky with the post-adrenalin crash, but he feels— _alive_.

 

Vala suddenly laughs and gives John a wet, smacking kiss on the cheek. “That went much better than I expected!” she says with an infectious grin, and then goes over to hug Mitchell.

 

John can’t help but grin himself.

 

~~~~~

 

Landry debriefs them after their post-mission medical, directing most of his comments to Mitchell. The general gives them a little lecture on how it’s helpful when they have at least one prisoner to interrogate, but he finally says, “Those raiders have been causing us trouble for weeks now, so you’ve just solved a problem. Enjoy the next two days off, Colonel.”

 

Mitchell shoots Landry a strange look, and then meets John’s eyes from across the table. John gives a small shake of his head, advising Mitchell not to push it. He doesn’t need two days off badly enough to risk pissing off the general.

 

Mitchell finally nods. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Dismissed,” Landry says.

 

John lets Mitchell precede him out with Vala on his heels. “Shep—” Mitchell begins, stopping suddenly. “You deserve some leave.”

 

“I’m fine,” John insists. “Really, I’m good.”

 

“We’re going out this weekend,” Mitchell says, and he has no idea whether it’s a threat or a promise.

 

“Sure,” John agrees readily, because he doesn’t feel like arguing. It’s easier to just go along with things.

 

Mitchell waves and saunters off, and Vala grabs John’s arm. “I’m going to watch a movie in my quarters. Are you interested?”

 

John isn’t. He wants some space after the day he’s had, but he can sense that Vala doesn’t want to be alone—and he understands that impetus, too. He has no idea what her history with Brun was, but he knows that she put a knife in his chest without a second thought.

 

“Sure, but let’s grab dinner first.”

 

It’s different sitting in the mess with Vala, rather than sitting alone. She seems to know everybody, and her steady stream of chatter relaxes John more than he expects.

 

They head to Vala’s quarters once they’ve finished eating, and John spares a moment to wonder how many people regularly sleep on the base. He doesn’t think it can be many, but he knows that Teal’c stays here when he’s on Earth, and clearly Vala lives here, too.

 

John keeps expecting someone to tell him that there’s no room at the inn for him, but so far, no one’s pushed.

 

Vala doesn’t have a TV, but she does have a laptop. _You’ve Got Mail_ isn’t his usual speed, but John doesn’t argue when she starts it up.

 

The movie is relatively entertaining, and he lets the dialogue wash over him as Vala grows more relaxed. Halfway through the movie, Vala slumps over, her head resting on John’s shoulder, and a damp spot growing on his t-shirt from her drool.

 

The last person who had trusted him this much had been Laurie, John remembers. Laurie, who had made him watch every chick-flick that made its way onto the base. Laurie, who had bled out on the sand before he could come riding to the rescue.

 

John gives brief thought to waking Vala up so he can leave, but he focuses his attention back on the movie. She’s sleeping now, and John has no way of knowing if his presence is helping, but it’s certainly not hurting matters.

 

He watches the movie all the way through, although there’s no way he will ever admit that he enjoyed it, even on pain of death.

 

When the credits roll, John shuts down the laptop and gently disentangles himself from Vala. She rouses briefly, smiling. “Hey,” she says.

 

“Hey,” he replies. “I’m heading back to my quarters. You okay?”

 

“Yes, thank you.” She touches his cheek briefly. “I didn’t want to be alone this evening.”

 

John shrugs. “You had a bad day.”

 

Vala’s expression darkens, and then she forces a smile. “I did. Thank you for indulging me.”

 

“Next time, we’re watching an action movie,” John replies, pressing his lips to her forehead.

 

“Of course.”

 

She’s probably humoring him, but John doesn’t mind. He slips out of her room and heads back towards his quarters.

 

He’s killed five people today, and he fully expects a restless night.

 

The truth is, John sleeps like a baby.

 

~~~~~

 

John has been a member of SG-1 for three months when he realizes that they’re truly a team. Their assignments generally involve someone shooting at them. John has done the math, and they end up fighting for their lives on at least two-thirds of their missions.

 

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but John doesn’t mind so much. Those are the times when he feels most alive and most connected to his teammates.

 

Still, he feels as though it’s not truly a permanent assignment. He keeps expecting Carter or Jackson or Teal’c to return—or all three of them to come back, edging John out. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable.

 

And then Landry orders them on a mission to a world where they _know_ there’s Ancient tech, which is apparently at some sacred site. John’s not sure how he feels about stomping all over someone else’s sacred ground, but orders are orders, and he still has the strongest ATA gene around.

 

This time, however, Landry sends a team of Marines along to watch SG-1’s collective backsides, and _that’s_ when John figures out how close they’ve gotten.

 

Mitchell takes point, and John brings up the rear, and the Marines fan out around them, but John can still feel the _wrongness_ of having other people around. He’s used to it just being the three of them, and he misses that.

 

The Marines joke with each other, but Mitchell and Vala don’t feel the need to speak. John doesn’t either. They’re practically living in each other’s pockets these days, and they’re close. Close enough so that when Mitchell starts a sentence, John can finish it. Close enough so that Vala can glance at Mitchell or John, and they both know what she’s thinking, just by the tilt of her head, or her eyebrow.

 

Three months doesn’t seem like a long time, but John figures that it’s also an eternity when they’re getting shot at every few days, and completely reliant on each other.

 

He knows from experience how tight and deep the bonds of friendship can become in a very short time when a team comes under fire.

 

John doesn’t like the way one of the Marines looks at Vala—Devers, he thinks—hungry and aggressive. He finds himself moving closer on her six, trying to shield her and send a silent message at the same time, that Vala isn’t up for grabs.

 

He knows what some of the soldiers around the base say, that Vala is easy, but John knows from experience that isn’t true. She flirts with anything that moves, but he spends half his evenings in her quarters, and the other half they’re both with Mitchell. She’s certainly not _easy_.

 

“Hey, Vala,” Devers calls, apparently unable to take a hint. “If you don’t have a tent, you can always share with me.”

 

John hears the snickers from at least two of the other Marines, and he throws a quelling look at Devers. He sees Mitchell do the same from out of the corner of his eye.

 

“We’re on a _mission_ ,” Mitchell growls.

 

Devers has the grace to look abashed. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

 

“You’d better be sorry.”

 

Vala stares straight ahead at the middle of Mitchell’s back as they continue their trek, and John resists the impulse to touch her, to just put a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. He knows that it would send the wrong message, and that’s the last thing he wants to do.

 

John lets his hand drift to the butt of his 9 mil, where it rides on his thigh, though, and he wonders if he’s imagining the audible gulp from Devers.

 

Hell, Devers is a private and still wet behind the ears. Vala is completely out of his league, but John remembers being young and stupid and convinced of his own superiority.

 

“Anos,” John murmurs, suddenly remembering a kid on one of the worlds they’d visited who’d followed Vala around like a puppy, tongue-tied and clumsy with want.

 

Vala chuckles and repeats the word so that Mitchell can hear, and John can see the bright flash of Mitchell’s grin over his shoulder.

 

And that’s when it hits him—John is a part of SG-1 now. They have in-jokes, and a language all their own. They’re a _team_.

 

John is torn between feeling warmed and indulging in a full-blown panic attack.

 

He’s spared from having to make the call when they top a hill and look down at the ruins of what is apparently the site where the Ancients had a command post, or research center. There’s no way to tell without someone who has the ATA gene.

 

“Okay, people, this is it,” Mitchell calls. “Look sharp.”

 

They descend the steep hill, moving as slowly as they can on that kind of grade while keeping a sharp eye out. They fan out once they reach the bottom of the hill, and John notices that the others keep him at the center.

 

John understands that. He’s grown used to it by now.

 

The site is more than half underground, and John sees an altar sitting in front of the entrance. There are dried up flowers, a few kernels of some sort of grain left by scavengers and birds, and the signs of a recent fire.

 

John lets Mitchell take the lead inside what can only be termed a bunker. They go down a few steps to a stone floor and a round room. The only light is what they can provide with their flashlights, and John can just make out a console and a chair.

 

He’s seen a control chair once before, but he’s never sat in one. He has no idea how it’s going to respond to him.

 

“Can you do anything with it, Shep?” Mitchell asks.

 

“I can try.” John approaches the chair cautiously, reaching out to touch the arm with a gentle finger. It lights up under his touch, and John gets an echo of _home_.

 

He suddenly knows that whatever McKay had given him in the hospital, this is the sort of lock it belonged to, because it was just that important. The echo is just that strong.

 

John circles the chair once, and then he sits down gingerly, plunging his hands into the blue gel at the ends of the arm rests. “I’m going to have to go deep,” John warns.

 

“We’ve got your back.”

 

Secure in the knowledge that Mitchell and Vala are looking out for him, John closes his eyes and opens his mind.

 

He’s learned a thing or two about Ancient tech in the last few months. His time in the labs has been well spent, not just because of the data that the scientists have been able to gather, but because of the knowledge that John has been able to attain. He knows how to immerse himself, how to make various forms of Ancient technology speak to him. He knows the ins and outs, and how it feels to mesh his consciousness to a machine.

 

He knows all of that, and it doesn’t prepare him for the chair.

 

When John finally emerges, completely exhausted, he knows what the chair has been used to do in the past, what they could do with it in the future, and that there’s a ZPM under it that’s at least three-quarters charged.

 

Mitchell catches John as he stumbles, easing him to the floor. “Careful,” Mitchell cautions. “You’ve been under for three hours.”

 

“There’s a ZPM,” John gasps, still shaky from the contact. “Here.”

 

He manages to release the catch so that the ZPM rises up out of the platform under the chair.

 

“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Mitchell promises. “We’ll camp for the night.”

 

Mitchell won’t listen to John’s protests that he’s okay to take a watch. “That’s what Marines are for,” he says, looking at John with a fond expression on his face. “So, you sleep. Besides, you can keep Vala company.”

 

“What about you?” John protests. He and Mitchell usually share a tent when they have to sleep off-world.

 

Mitchell shrugs. “It’s a nice night. I’ll camp out. But if you’re with Vala, all three of us know that none of the Marines will try anything.”

 

John considers raising another protest, but he’s unable to formulate one. Mitchell makes sure John has eaten, and then he slips out of the tent. Vala crawls in a few minutes later. “Cameron wants to be sure that we’re both okay,” she murmurs when John finally voices his protest. “This way, he knows we’re safe.”

 

“I’m fine,” John says, keeping his voice low enough so that no one else can hear him. “Really.”

 

“We were the ones standing around for three hours waiting to see if you’d ever surface,” Vala points out ruthlessly. “Cameron was worried.”

 

John feels the beginning of a smile curl his lips. “What about you?”

 

“I was worried too,” Vala admits, and then says teasingly, “Who else would I get to watch chick flicks with me?”

 

“You could always make another female friend,” John feels compelled to point out.

 

Vala shrugs. “Most women are intimidated by me. Sam wasn’t, but she’s on a ship somewhere in deep space.”

 

Sometimes John gets a glimpse of how lonely Vala must be. Most of the aliens at the SGC have somewhere they can go, like Teal’c, who has pretty much rejoined the free Jaffa. Vala doesn’t seem to have anywhere she can call home, or anyone she can call family, other than him and Mitchell.

 

“Hey, you okay?” John asks, unable to put words to what he’s feeling.

 

Vala smiles, and it appears genuine. “I’m fine. I’m sharing a tent with you.”

 

John chuckles and rolls his eyes, but he settles down to sleep. He’s tired; his time in the chair took more out of him than he’d like to admit.

 

Vala reaches across the intervening space to clasp John’s hand, and while he’d never admit it, he’s grateful for the human contact. It anchors him to this world. And tomorrow, if he has to go back in, he’ll remember Vala’s touch and find his way home.

 

~~~~~

 

Landry seems pleased with what they’ve found when they emerge on the other side of the gate. They have a ZPM, and there have been no casualties—no one even noticed they were at the sacred site. “Get checked out,” Landry orders. “And then we’ll debrief.”

 

The debriefing is routine. John can practically see Landry salivating over the power that the ZPM has to offer, but he knows there’s no guarantee that the scientists at the SGC will get first dibs. More likely, the ZPM will be shipped to Area 51 and McKay, and the SGC will have to put up whatever leftovers they’re offered for Cheyenne Mountain.

 

Landry dismisses them with the usual, “Colonel Mitchell, you have the next two days off.”

 

This time, however, Mitchell replies with, “Sheppard, too, sir. He hasn’t had a weekend off in months.”

 

It’s true enough. In between missions with SG-1, John has spent time in the labs, or in the infirmary. He thinks that Lam and her colleagues are close to duplicating his ATA gene and making sure that as many people as possible have the genetic advantage.

 

Sheppard doesn’t mind working, though. It keeps his mind off other things, and he’s usually content to focus on equations—he’s rediscovered his love of math—or on the various pieces of Ancient equipment Bill wants him to test out.

 

So, John keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the fake wood grain of the table until Landry says, “Fine. All three of you have the weekend.”

 

John hasn’t even realized that it’s Friday. He tends to lose track of days under the mountain.

 

“Let’s go, Shep,” Mitchell says.

 

Vala follows them out, although she soon heads off in another direction. “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” she calls over her shoulder as she moves towards the mess.

 

John still feels a little dazed by the prospect of more than a day off at a time. “I don’t—”

 

“Grab your stuff, Sheppard,” Mitchell orders. “You’re staying at my place this weekend.”

 

John thinks about arguing for about a second before offering a sloppy salute. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Can it,” Mitchell advises. “And when we’re off duty, it’s Cameron.”

 

John finally nods. “I’ll pack a bag.” He narrowly avoids tagging on a “sir” at the end.

 

Mitchell smirks as though he can read what’s going on in John’s head. “I’ll be waiting upstairs.”

 

It doesn’t take John long. In the last three months, Vala has made good on her promise to make John go shopping, so he does have civvies to spare. Not many, but that has more to do with the fact that it’s been a week since he’s done laundry.

 

True to his word, Mitchell is in the outer lobby, and they check out quickly. “Vala’s coming over tomorrow night,” he says. “I’ve already told her that we aren’t watching any chick flicks.”

 

John flicks a glance toward Mitchell, wondering if he knows just how many movies he’s watched with Vala in the last three months. “Sounds good to me,” he says, not giving anything away.

 

Mitchell’s apartment is neat as a pin, something John can appreciate. The furniture matches, and the big screen TV dominates the wall across from the couch. There are family photos scattered everywhere—lining the walls, sitting on the side tables and whatever flat surface is available. Mitchell shows John to the guest room, and John stows his bag.

 

By the time he emerges, Mitchell has two beers ready, and he’s throwing a frozen pizza in the oven. “You mind?” Mitchell asks. “We can get takeout somewhere if you want.”

 

“No, that’s great,” John says. He had lived off of frozen meals and takeout in Vegas, and there’s a certain nostalgia associated with a dinner of cheap pizza and beer.

 

Mitchell shuts the oven door and raises his eyebrows. “I have the Air Force-Navy game recorded. I haven’t had time to watch it yet.”

 

John had gone ROTC at Stanford, so he doesn’t have the same affection for the Air Force Academy that a lot of other pilots do. Still, it’s college football; John has somehow forgotten that football season has started. He lives below ground now, and every world they gate to seems to be in the midst of a different season.

 

“Sounds good,” John agrees easily.

 

During the game, Mitchell keeps up a running commentary, interspersed with stories from his own time as a second-string quarterback in high school.

 

“What about you, Shep?” Mitchell asks at some point. “Did you play sports?”

 

“I ran track,” John admits. “I wasn’t big enough to play football.”

 

“Track is good,” Mitchell replies. “You still run?”

 

“Whenever I can,” John says. There aren’t a lot of places in the SGC, but some of the Marines and a few of the Air Force officers have a route on the surface that John follows.

 

“We can go tomorrow,” Mitchell offers.

 

John is surprised, but nods. “Yeah, sure. That would be good.”

 

They eat pizza and drink more beer and watch the football games that Mitchell has recorded. John feels himself slowly unwinding, the tension in his shoulders easing after the last mission. He hadn’t realized how knotted up he’d been.

 

Ancient technology always makes John homesick for a place he’s never seen, and the more powerful the tech, the harder it is to come back.

 

Sometimes, John thinks that if things ever get too bad, he’ll just find his way to one of the Ancient chairs. He could sit down and lose himself; there’s no one who can pull him out if he really tries to hide.

 

John goes to bed and sleeps like a baby in Mitchell’s guest room in spite of the too-soft bed. It’s different than when they sleep two to a tent off-world, but John still knows that Mitchell is only a shout away.

 

They spend a leisurely morning, going for a run together and grabbing a large breakfast at a nearby café. Mitchell announces his intention to go to the grocery store and run a few other errands, and John trails along. He’s a little surprised by how easy the domesticity comes to him, but he enjoys the errands.

 

It’s a bit like a trip to the Twilight Zone. John doesn’t remember ever being this domestic.

 

They grab tacos at a hole in the wall Mexican place Mitchell frequents, and settle down in front of the TV to watch college football all afternoon.

 

Around five, Mitchell gets up to start dinner. John has no idea what kind of cook Mitchell is, but he’s looking forward to a home-cooked meal, no matter how badly it’s prepared.

 

Mitchell puts John to work, describing his mom’s famous chicken potpie in rapturous terms that has John’s mouth watering, even though he doubts Mitchell’s ability to reproduce it.

 

By the time Vala appears at the door, the scent of chicken and vegetables and rich sauce fills the apartment. Vala brings a bottle of wine and a stack of videos.

 

“No chick flicks, per your request,” Vala says archly, reaching up to press a kiss to Mitchell’s cheek. John doesn’t get off so lightly; she catches him full on the mouth and pulls back with a saucy grin. “I hope you boys have been enjoying your weekend.”

 

“Have you been tormenting the Marines again?” Mitchell teases.

 

Vala grins. “How else am I going to keep from being bored?”

 

“How else indeed,” Mitchell mutters.

 

It turns out that Mitchell is a fantastic cook, even though he doesn’t get to practice all that often. “My mom taught me everything I know,” he says. “And there are a few things I make just as well as she does. This is one of them.”

 

They spend the rest of the evening watching action flicks. Mitchell takes the recliner, leaving the couch to John and Vala. Vala, who is only cognizant of personal space when she wants to be, sprawls out with her head in John’s lap. John thinks he should probably push her away, especially in front of Mitchell, but instead he just threads his fingers through her hair gently, content to touch and be touched in return.

 

~~~~~

 

By the time John catches a ride to the mountain on Monday morning, he’s feeling a hell of a lot better. It turns out that getting out from under 200 feet of stone and steel is good for his mental health.

 

“You know,” Mitchell begins as he turns the car off with a flick of his wrist. “If you don’t want to look for an apartment, you can always take over the guest room.”

 

John stares at him. “Are you serious?”

 

Mitchell shrugs. “We get along, and a lot of the guys at the SGC have roommates.”

 

John frowns. “A lot of the enlisted guys, you mean.”

 

Mitchell shrugs. “So? It’s a way to share expenses, and we’re off-world a lot. I figure it would do you good to get off the base a little more often.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” is as much as John’s willing to promise. “It’s a tempting offer, sir, but—”

 

“We’re still off duty, John,” Mitchell breaks in.

 

John shakes his head. “Cam, we work together. You’re going to get sick of me.”

 

“Haven’t gotten sick of you yet, Shep,” Mitchell replies. “But if you’re worried about it, there are a couple of empty apartments in my building. You _need_ to get off base.”

 

It’s half an order, half advice, but John knows that Mitchell is mostly speaking as his friend.

 

“I will,” John promises. “One way or another.”

 

Mitchell nods. “Just let me know.”

 

The day passes in a blur of meetings and lab time, and John makes his way to his base quarters with relief. He’s been playing lab rat in the infirmary and turning things on and off with his brain all afternoon, catching the vicarious thrill from the scientists over finding a ZPM. He’s heard talk that they might try going after Atlantis again, but John has no idea what that might mean for him.

 

John is grateful for his own space, and that’s a big part of the reason he’s hesitant to move in with Mitchell. The other part is that John thinks this might all fall apart at some point, and it’s going to be a lot harder to disengage if he’s living with Mitchell.

 

Collapsing on his bed, John throws an arm over his eyes, groaning when there’s a knock at his door.

 

The knock comes again a few seconds later, and John knows that his visitor isn’t going to take no for an answer.

 

“Come in,” he calls.

 

Vala slips inside. “Long day, huh?”

 

“You could say that,” John replies. “You?”

 

“This afternoon was _boring_ ,” she complains. “I really hope we have another mission soon. My day isn’t complete if someone isn’t shooting at us.”

 

John tries, and fails, to hide his grin. “Yeah?”

 

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t feel the same,” Vala says, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “Nearly getting killed makes you feel alive.”

 

It’s an astute observation, and John doesn’t bother trying to argue. “I guess.”

 

“It’s entirely true.” Vala stretches out next to him, propping her head up on one hand, looking down into John’s face. “So, are you going to live in Mitchell’s spare room?”

 

There’s a tension between them now that John barely recognizes. It’s been so long since a woman has come onto him like this, someone he’s known and cared about.

 

“I haven’t decided yet,” John says. “Maybe.”

 

Vala gives him a very serious look. “I think you should get your own place.”

 

She dives in for a kiss, and John can’t say that he doesn’t see it coming. He rarely sees it coming, but Vala has given him plenty of warnings, signs that even John can’t miss.

 

For a moment, John considers pushing Vala away; he knows it’s not a good idea to get involved with a team member. He’s been there and done that, and he has the scars to show for it. He’d barely survived the loss of Laurie and his friends after Afghanistan. John knows he won’t survive another loss like that one.

 

Vala is soft, and warm, and skilled, though, and it’s been so _fucking_ long since anybody touched John like this—like they want him, like he’s more than a payment at the end of an evening, or a one night stand, or a genetic anomaly.

 

John runs his hands up Vala’s back, feeling the play of muscles under her thin t-shirt. Her thighs grip his waist, and John feels the brush of her soft breasts against his chest.

 

When she pulls back to catch her breath, John manages to recover some of his self-control. “Wait,” he says. “Wait. Vala—”

 

He can’t bring himself to say the words, but he sees the hurt flash across her face. “I’ll just go.”

 

“No.” John can’t let her go. “No, it’s just…” He chokes on the words, unable to explain his fears.

 

When he’d been with Laurie, she had sometimes laughed at his inability to talk about his feelings, although not unkindly. She’d usually let him struggle for a while, and then had let John demonstrate his feelings through action.

 

Vala seems to be developing the same skill, because she sits back on her heels, still straddling his waist. “What is it?”

 

“There was someone—before,” John begins, struggling with every word. “She died, and I couldn’t save her.”

 

Vala’s expression softens, and she bends down again for another kiss, this one sweeter and slower, the fire banked but still smoldering. “I’m not giving up,” she murmurs as she settles down, half-sprawled across his chest.

 

It’s a tease and a promise, and just a little bit of a threat. In spite of his fear that this will all come around to bite him in the ass, John smiles and pulls her in close. He can’t resist.

 

~~~~~

 

John would have been content for things to stay the same—the occasional weekend spent at Mitchell’s apartment, the occasional night watching movies with Vala, and missions that mostly went according to plan.

 

After two weeks go by with neither team member pushing John to make a decision about either issue, he almost believes he’s going to get away with it.

 

And then comes P3Y-421.

 

Landry has started using SG-1 on specialized missions. They don’t have a scientist, so they don’t go on a lot of exploratory missions unless they’re being paired with another team. SG-3 has two scientists—a botanist and a linguist—so they’re the ones that usually get sent to planets where there might be something of value.

 

John has been picking up any information he can about the inner workings of a DHD, just in case they ever get stranded, and he thinks that between him and Vala, they could probably take care of any problem that’s readily fixable.

 

And that means that SG-1 is uniquely capable of doing reconnaissance and quick strikes. Vala’s skills as a con artist, John’s covert ops background, and Mitchell’s experience with the Sodan warriors—it all adds up to a team that can get in, get information, and get out.

 

They have the mission briefing on P3Y-421 the morning before they’re scheduled to gate out. The planet keeps cropping up in reports from other worlds, referencing missionaries who are trying to spread a new religion that sounds like a cross between Origin and the idea that the Goa’uld are gods.

 

Needless to say, the SGC wants more information, and SG-1 goes because three people traveling together is slightly less conspicuous than four, and they’ve already proven they can blend in.

 

They have enough information to know not to go in uniform. Instead, they wear standard gear for merchants and mercenaries—long leather coats, trousers, cotton shirts, and boots. The gate is on the outskirts of a relatively large village, and when they arrive, the sky overcast, and the temperature is cool but pleasant.

 

Still, as they approach the stone wall that surrounds the village, John feels the prickle of uneasiness, the kind of sixth sense that soldiers and cops develop if they live long enough. The tension grows as they walk through the wide entrance into the village proper. Even though John sees no sign of a gate, he’s certain the inhabitants of a walled town have a way to shut off the obvious escape routes.

 

John sees Mitchell eyeing the thick walls suspiciously, but Vala appears as carefree as always.

 

The key word is _appears_ , of course. John hadn’t missed the way Vala stiffened at the mention of Origin during the briefing.

 

There’s a market set up in the middle of the village, and they make their way past the various stands. John keeps his hands off his weapons—he has a knife sheathed in his boot, and a zat hanging off the back of his belt. Zats are less likely to give them away as members of the Tau’ri.

 

As more and more men begin to shadow them, wearing hostile expressions, John moves closer to Mitchell. “Mitchell?”

 

“Yeah, I see them,” Mitchell replies grimly. “Vala, we’re going to create a diversion. I want you to focus on gating back to Earth and calling in the cavalry.”

 

Vala keeps a pleasant expression on her face, but her eyes betray her anxiety. “What about you?”

 

“You know how the Ori feel about you,” Mitchell replies. “I don’t want you in their hands.”

 

The hostiles begin to move closer, and John’s hand twitches. He longs to pull his zat and start shooting.

 

“Cameron…” Vala trails off, finally granting his point. “Fine, but you’d both better be in one piece when I get back.”

 

“On my mark, then,” Mitchell murmurs. “Shep, you’ve got a hostile on your six. Take that one first.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

The hostile parties begin moving in, and Mitchell draws his zat from the holster at the small of his back and starts firing. John does the same, whirling and going down on one knee to fire.

 

When the hostiles converge, Vala ducks down and slips through a gap that John and Mitchell create for her. John and Mitchell put up a good fight, but there are just too many enemies, and there’s a rising chorus of “infidels” and “unbelievers” coming from the crowd.

 

John goes down hard, feeling a muscle in his shoulder stretch and pull. Hands grab him, tearing at his clothes, and he feels a sharp pain in his temple. The world grays out, and then goes dark.

 

When he wakes, John feels heavy manacles around his wrists, but he can’t see a thing. He moves, hearing the clank of the chains, and Mitchell calls out, “Shep? You awake?”

 

“Yeah,” John says, swallowing hard. “Is it dark in here, or is it just me?”

 

“They said something about unbelievers not deserving the light,” Mitchell says. “You okay?”

 

“My shoulder hurts,” John admits. “You?”

 

“Cuts and bruises, but nothing serious.”

 

John struggles into a sitting position, feeling for the wall so he has something to lean against.

 

“Hold still,” Mitchell orders, and a moment later his hand closes around John’s forearm. “This way.”

 

Mitchell guides John back so that they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, their backs against the dank stone wall. “Did Vala get away?”

 

“Hope so,” Mitchell responds.

 

“What’s the story with her and the Ori?” John asks.

 

He feels Mitchell’s shrug. “She and Jackson got caught up in one of their nets a couple of years ago, and then Vala ended up stuck on one of their worlds. She had a rough time of it.”

 

“The Ori didn’t care for her?” John asks. “I thought just about everybody liked Vala.”

 

“Just about everybody does,” Mitchell replies. “But the Ori are prim and proper, and that description has never applied to Vala.”

 

John grunts his reply.

 

“So, what’s going on with the two of you?”

 

Mitchell’s question surprises John, and he stiffens. “What?”

 

“Come on,” Mitchell says softly. “Maybe you can fool the rest of the base, but you two are thick as thieves these days.”

 

John fingers the material of his trousers. “It’s against the rules.”

 

“Vala isn’t a soldier, John,” Mitchell says, his voice gentle. “She’s not under my command. She stays because she wants to.”

 

“You two weren’t—”

 

“She’s not my type.” John can hear the grin in Mitchell’s voice. “You should go for it. She’s good for you. She’ll certainly keep you on your toes.”

 

John sighs. “Yeah, there’s that. I just—I’ve done it before. I’ve been involved with someone I worked with, and it didn’t turn out so well.”

 

“I know.”

 

Mitchell’s quiet assurance causes John’s heart to stutter and skip a beat. “Excuse me?”

 

“I _know_.” Mitchell lets out a long breath. “Look, John, it was the kind of story that makes the rounds. She was a medic, she went down in enemy territory, and you went after her.”

 

John lets out a laugh that sounds bitter, even to him. “You make it sound so romantic.”

 

“It wasn’t?”

 

“People _died_ , Mitchell,” John says harshly.

 

Mitchell nudges John’s shoulder with his own. “It happens in war.”

 

“And this time it was my fault.” John hears nothing but his own harsh breaths and the slow drip of water somewhere. “If you knew, why the hell would you want me on your team?”

 

There’s a long pause. For a moment, John thinks that Mitchell just won’t answer, but then he says, “About the time you were flying choppers in Afghanistan, I was flying missions in Iraq. We got orders to destroy a target that was supposed to be traveling in a convoy. It was a rough mission from the start, and the intel was shaky, but we found the convoy just where they said. I dropped the bomb, and then got the word to abort. It wasn’t our target at all; it was a convoy full of refugees.”

 

John feels sick on Mitchell’s behalf. “What did you do?”

 

“I took some time off, I talked to my dad, I thought about resigning my commission. They kept telling me that I was just following orders, that those things happen in war, but it doesn’t change the fact that I killed innocent people.”

 

John leans into Mitchell a little harder. “No, it doesn’t change that.” He clears his throat. “That still doesn’t answer my question, though.”

 

“Everybody who goes through the gate wants to know they can count on the rest of the team to come for them if they get left behind,” Mitchell says quietly. “Even if it’s against orders, even if the odds are against us, I need to know that the people on my team have my back.”

 

John swallows. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

 

“What was her name?” Mitchell’s gentle question has John putting his head down on his drawn-up knees.

 

John has never talked about her, not to anyone, but here—in the dark, with the man who knows what a fuck-up he is and doesn’t seem to mind—John can speak. “Laurie. We—we were talking about getting married once our tours were over. She wanted to go to med school. I figured I could find a job flying search and rescue, life flight, something like that.”

 

“You’d have been good at it.”

 

“Maybe.” John rubs his forehead and hears the chains rattle. “I guess we’ll never know. Cam—you have to know, if something happened to Vala, I think I’d go a little bit crazy again.”

 

“That’s the thing, John,” he replies. “I’d be right behind you the whole way.”

 

John feels something inside him relax. He can’t remember the last time he had someone to watch his back like that, someone he’d follow into hell and out the other side.

 

He’d go a little crazy if something happened to Mitchell, too, John realizes. But he’s pretty sure that Vala would move heaven and earth right alongside him.

 

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Mitchell asks, and the question comes straight out of left field.

 

“What?”

 

“Christmas,” Mitchell prompts. “I’m having Thanksgiving at my place, but if you’re not going anywhere, I figured you might want to come home with me.”

 

John shakes his head. “You don’t want me there.”

 

“Vala already said she’d come—as long as you did too,” Mitchell continues inexorably. “I’m not leaving you to spend the holidays by your lonesome on the base.”

 

John knows when he’s beat. “Your parents—”

 

“Already invited you,” Mitchell inserts smoothly. “You’re not going to win this argument, Shep.”

 

“Fine,” John replies, trying to inject just the right amount of reluctance into his voice. He’s secretly pleased, however, and more than a little terrified by the idea, but he figures there are even odds that some mission or emergency will come up to prevent them from going. “How many people are we talking?”

 

“Not that many,” Mitchell says in that tone of voice that tells John he’s lying through his teeth—or at least isn’t divulging the whole story. “My parents, my brother, his family—maybe a few others.”

 

“Define ‘a few,’” John presses.

 

Mitchell chuckles. “What? Don’t you trust me?”

 

“With my life,” John says readily. “But I don’t know your family.”

 

“Vala will take all the pressure off you,” Mitchell says. “I took her to my high school reunion with me.”

 

“I’ll bet that was an interesting time,” John drawls.

 

“You could say that.” Mitchell nudges him. “Just wait until you have a taste of my mom’s pie. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”

 

That sets Mitchell off on a series of stories about his family and his childhood, and John listens with a sense of wonder that families like that actually exist. There’s no artifice to Mitchell; his affection for his parents and brother is apparent in his voice.

 

Mitchell asks a deceptively simple question, and suddenly John finds himself talking about his first college roommate and the night they’d gotten shit-faced together.

 

They swap stories until John’s hoarse, having talked more in this cell than he has in years.

 

John realizes that Mitchell’s asleep when he slumps against John’s shoulder, snoring softly. He has no idea how much time has passed, but he figures it has to be late at night, or maybe early in the morning. John ignores his full bladder and empty stomach, as well as his raging thirst, and he tips his head back against the wall.

 

John wakes with a start when the door slams open, the light spilling into the room blinding him. He’s hauled to his feet by two burly guards before he can recover.

 

“What are you doing?” Mitchell demands.

 

“We’re purifying our village by holy fire.” The man who speaks is wearing long gray robes, and he has some kind of odd hat. John figures him for a priest, and he really doesn’t like the sound of “holy fire.”

 

Mitchell surges up off the floor. “If you’re going to take somebody, you take me! I’m the leader! I’m the one in charge!”

 

One of the guards hit Mitchell across the face, putting him down on the stone floor. “You’ll have your turn, infidel.”

 

The guards drag John out of the cell, and there’s even more light in the corridor. John’s eyes sting and water, and he blinks rapidly. They emerge from the stone structure in the middle of the square, and John gets some relief with the pre-dawn light.

 

They drag him to a charred post set up in the middle of the square and hook the chain between his wrists to a hook above his head. It’s tall enough that John doesn’t have much play—he’s stretched out to his full height while the villagers begin to lay bundles of wood around his feet.

 

“Okay, that’s enough,” John says, feeling panic begin to choke him. “Seriously, this isn’t necessary. You could just send us back home through the gate. I swear we won’t come back.”

 

“It’s too late for that, infidel. We know who you are—you destroy worlds and subvert the innocent. We have heard of you,” the priest intones.

 

“Mind telling me who told you about us?” John asks. “Because I was pretty sure we were flying under the radar.”

 

“We have our sources,” the priest replies smugly. “We will keep our planet pure for the return of the Ori.”

 

John snorts. “We got rid of the Ori. You’re screwed.”

 

“You won’t be alive to know. Light the fire!”

 

John isn’t afraid of death; he’s faced it before. The thought of burning alive, though—that’s something else altogether.

 

He begins to struggle in earnest when a man approaches with a torch, but all John can do is twist like a fish on a line. The torch catches the dry tinder at the edge of the pile of wood.

 

The sound of automatic weapons fire gives John hope, and he goes up on his tiptoes to wrap his hands around the chains. If he can hold himself up for long enough, John might be able to get out of this without third degree burns from the waist down.

 

Then Vala strides into the square like an avenging angel, the villagers scattering before her. Vala and the Marines she’s brought with her shoot anyone who doesn’t run.

 

The flames are far too close for comfort by the time the square is cleared. The priest and his guards are dead or dying, and Vala begins yelling directions. “I need water, now!”

 

Without waiting for assistance, Vala starts kicking at the brush, trying to clear a path to John. One of the soldiers, a big motherfucker, follows Vala, shouldering her out of the way and grabbing John around the waist. He lifts John up, and John takes the opportunity to unhook the chain.

 

“Colonel Dave Dixon,” he says. “Good to see you in one piece, Major Sheppard.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” John replies, still not quite believing that he’s unharmed. “Mitchell’s still in the cell. I’ll show you.”

 

“One second,” Vala urges. “Just—” She makes fast work of the manacles on John’s wrists with the keys she apparently stole from the priest’s belt.

 

“Bring those with you,” John says, and then leads the way.

 

They don’t face much resistance getting into the building, and John manages to remember the twists and turns they’d taken to get to the cell. The door is locked, and the keys they’ve brought don’t work, so he shouts through the door, “Cam, it’s John. Move as far back as you can.”

 

“Go ahead,” Mitchell calls.

 

Dixon shapes the charge and sets it; the lock blows a few moments later. John is the first one inside, Vala right behind him. Mitchell blinks at the light. “You okay?” he asks John.

 

“Vala got here in the nick of time.” John knows that he’s going to crash hard later, when the adrenalin sustaining him wears off. “You good, sir?”

 

“Better than,” Mitchell replies as the manacles fall away under Vala’s clever fingers. “Let’s go home.”

 

~~~~~

 

After the standard infirmary check, Dr. Lam declares them “slightly the worse for wear, but otherwise fine.” She leaves unspoken the fact that they got off lightly. John’s hands still tremble a bit when he thinks about how close the flames had come.

 

By the time they arrive at the debriefing, Dixon has radioed in with the report that none of the villagers are too broken up about the priest and his guards being dead. Apparently, there’s a bit of an impromptu celebration going on.

 

Landry congratulates them on a job well done—although John isn’t sure what they’ve done that’s so great—and tells them to take the next couple of days to recover.

 

The three of them troop out of the conference room, and Mitchell says, “Dinner at my place tomorrow?”

 

Vala readily agrees, and John nods his acceptance, grateful that Mitchell has sensed his need for space. For a moment, John thinks Vala is going to follow him into his quarters, but she merely touches his shoulder.

 

“Thanks,” John murmurs.

 

She smiles. “I prefer you to be in one piece.”

 

“So do I.”

 

She leaves him then, and John feels as though he should be relieved not to have to entertain. The hot water soothes his aching muscles but does nothing to ease his mind. He’s exhausted, but he’s too tightly wound to sleep. John paces a few laps around his room, wanting to get out, wanting to move, wanting to do _something_.

 

He pulls on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and his feet take him to Vala’s door. John doesn’t allow himself to think too hard about what he’s doing, or what he’s going to do when he gets there. He just knocks and shoves his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

 

Vala opens the door wearing the boxers and t-shirt she usually sleeps in. “John.”

 

“Hey,” he offers in greeting. “Did I wake you up?”

 

“No.” She reaches out and grabs the front of John’s shirt. “Get in here.”

 

Relief floods him as he follows her inside, kicking the door closed behind them. Vala’s hands run over his shoulders, down his arms, and then over his chest. “Don’t toy with me,” Vala whispers.

 

“This isn’t a game,” John promises.

 

“What changed your mind?” she asks.

 

John pushes his hands into her hair and kisses her in lieu of a reply. He can’t explain what he felt when Vala came rushing in to his rescue, or in the cell with Mitchell, finding out that his darkest secrets were already known.

 

He’s never been good at talking about his feelings.

 

Vala doesn’t press him for answers. She breaks off the kiss long enough to pull John’s t-shirt up over his head, and lets John return the favor.

 

And then it’s bare skin against bare skin, and John’s hands are mapping the contours of Vala’s breasts, of her waist. He pushes her shorts down to move his hands over her ass, and Vala fumbles with the button on his jeans.

 

They fall onto her bed together in a tangle of limbs, sweat-slick skin reducing the friction between their bodies. John can smell the floral scent of Vala’s shampoo, and the faint tang of sweat and soap.

 

Vala rolls on top of him, straddling John’s waist. She sets a hard pace, and they’re both panting as she rides him. John knows that if he weren’t so tired, he’d have already come, but his weariness works to his advantage this time. Vala comes, her head thrown back and mouth open. John flips them over, thrusting a few more times before his orgasm overtakes him.

 

John collapses onto the bed next to her, breathless, his blood singing through his veins, feeling fully alive—the way he does after being shot at.

 

Vala rolls to sling an arm across John’s waist, nuzzling his shoulder. “I have to say, my high expectations weren’t disappointed.”

 

He grins. “Good to know. Neither were mine.”

 

“Are you okay?” Vala asks, her tone turning serious.

 

John presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Never better,” he assures her.

 

~~~~~

 

They wake briefly early the next morning for a lazy round of sex, only to fall back asleep again until noon when hunger drives them out of bed.

 

“Mitchell knows,” John says quietly before heading back to his own quarters for a shower and a set of clean clothes. “But we should probably keep this quiet. I don’t think I could handle it if Landry broke the team up.”

 

Vala caresses his cheek. “It would never happen.” Her smile is hard-edged and sharp. “I wouldn’t _let_ it happen. I’m not done with you yet.”

 

Her words are an echo of Mitchell’s from their time in the cell, and John figures that Landry doesn’t stand a chance. For his part, he’s grateful that Vala’s hanging onto him just as hard as he’s hanging on to her.

 

“See you later?”

 

“We’re still going over to Cameron’s for dinner,” she replies. “Are you going to work out?”

 

John nods. He’s regained most of the weight and the muscle mass he lost after being shot, but he knows he doesn’t recover nearly as quickly as he used to, and he has to work to stay in shape these days. “I have to keep my girlish figure somehow.”

 

Vala sends him off with a peck on his lips. “Go. I’ll meet you at your quarters.”

 

Things have changed enough in the last few months that several people drift over to talk to John while he’s on the bench press. Major Lorne offers to spot him, and John takes him up on it. They talk football and crazy missions, and at one point Lorne says, “You know, they say you’re finally a member of the SGC when you’ve been kidnapped, thrown in jail, or forced to participate in a freaky alien ritual.”

 

John chuckles. “So, you heard, huh?”

 

“Are you kidding?” Lorne asks. “Vala came through the gate threatening anybody who so much as suggested that they take some time to get the lay of the land. She’d have led the rescue single-handedly if Landry hadn’t sent SG-13.” Lorne offers a sly grin. “I was sorry to miss the party.”

 

John laughs. “It was some party.”

 

By the time John leaves the base gym, he’s feeling pretty relaxed. He’s in the shower when it hits him how comfortable he is here, how foreign his old life feels to him now. When he thinks about Detective John Sheppard, it’s almost like he’s a different person.

 

John pushes the thought aside. He’s made a habit of living in the present, not thinking about the past, and not looking to the future. John doesn’t see a reason to change that now.

 

He’s sprawled on his bed reading a battered copy of _War and Peace_ when Vala turns up. Mitchell picks them up, and they swing by a local place to pick up a few pizzas. It’s a hole in the wall, but Mitchell insists it’s the best pizza in Colorado Springs.

 

Over the past few months, Mitchell’s apartment has become a home away from home for John, and he feels just as comfortable here as in his base quarters. They fill their plates, grab their beers, and settle in for the night. Mitchell takes the recliner without prompting, and Vala cuddles up next to John on the couch.

 

Mitchell smirks, shoots John a conspiratorial look, and puts the food on the coffee table, within easy reach for everyone.

 

Mitchell puts on the first _Back to the Future_ film, because Vala hasn’t seen it yet, and Mitchell owns the trilogy. Vala stays awake for the first movie, but she falls asleep halfway through the second. When John glances over at Mitchell, he’s asleep, too, and John feels a wave of protectiveness sweep over him.

 

These people are fierce and fearless and _his_ , and he’d do anything to keep them safe.

 

 _Anything_.

 

John drops off to sleep somewhere between the dance and the final credits, waking when Mitchell nudges his shoulder.

 

“Vala’s in the guest room,” Mitchell says softly from his kneeling position next to John. “You can crash on the couch or join her, your choice.”

 

“I’ll join her, if that’s okay,” John replies.

 

“Great. I’ll make breakfast tomorrow.” Mitchell hesitates and then says, “You know, if you don’t want to move in here, there’s an empty apartment one floor up. If you’re interested.”

 

“I’m interested,” John says before he can think better of it.

 

Mitchell grins. “We can stop in at the office tomorrow. They should be open.”

 

He rises, and John follows, feeling as though he ought to say something. “Hey, Cam. Thanks.”

 

John’s hope that Mitchell won’t press for more answers is realized when Mitchell just shrugs and clasps John’s shoulder. “What are friends for?”

 

John slips inside Mitchell’s spare room, and can see Vala curled up on one side of the bed in the faint light from the hallway. He studies her—dark hair spread out, pale skin almost glowing, dark lashes shadowing her cheek, and he knows that when he joins her she’ll turn to him the way she did last night.

 

For a moment, the knowledge of what he has now presses in on him, and it’s strange and surreal, but John’s getting better at accepting his life now.

 

“This is real,” he whispers, and Vala’s eyes open.

 

She stretches out a hand to him. “Come to bed, John.”

 

And he slides in next to her, pressing a kiss to her lips, and he thinks that this isn’t a bad afterlife, as such things go.


End file.
